


Bat Buckle

by orphan_account



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Superman (Comics)
Genre: Bruce being a tease, Jason will never be the same, M/M, Secret Identity, Stripping, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 08:20:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4053118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clark Kent, investigative journalist visits a strip club to chase down a lead for story. Instead he finds himself captivated by some tall, dark, handsome stranger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bat Buckle

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9oYsd_RkwGc) lovely video.

There was something about the blue eyes that felt familiar. An irrational inkling of awareness that tugged at the tips of his mind,  beckoning him to put the clues together. The same inkling that helped him cement his place in the world of investigative journalism as Clark Kent, Daily Planet journalist. But he really couldn’t place it, and also had no idea how he’d know anyone from a place like this.

It was the pits of Metropolis. While Superman might have chased out the major organised crime families, the presence of minor thugs was something not even he could remove. And seedy little joints like this remained, although considering the new reforms regarding businesses like this under the mayor, it wasn’t too bad.

It was a legitimate strip club, with health inspections and all the red tape. Allegedly none of the people working here are forced, and are free to leave of their own volition. But a part of Clark felt a little cynicism at that statement. He’s seen some of the squalor folks like these had to return to if they left, for some, this business meant the difference between a warm bed and a bit of newspaper on the streets. But the state of Metropolis’s strip clubs weren’t the reason Clark Kent, or Superman were here.

There had been rumours, just rumours of course, of a drug ring using Metropolis as the base of operations. But enough of a rumour that both Clark Kent and Superman needed to investigate. Near the docks, where dealers used to sell their products, a teenager was found overdosing on some new form of smack. Which was enough proof for Clark to do some digging.

The trail went cold for a while until he traced it to the owner of a strip club. This strip club.

Which was why Clark Kent, upstanding citizen, son of Jonathan and Martha Kent was here in this smoky neon light room. Where everything smelled of cigars, booze and sweat. People whistled a bit too loudly for his tastes as they threw bills to the person on stage. 

Tonight was ‘Fags Night’ as the door tastefully proclaimed in a banner, and Clark was here to meet with a stripper named, Ligra, who agreed to a clandestine interview. He originally came here with the expectation he’d drink some beer pretending to enjoy himself for a couple of hours as Ligra finally got off his shift to talk to him. Just an hour or two of sitting there, listening to the loud pumping music, and watching physically attractive people do impressive feats on poles. What he didn’t expect was to lock eyes with some stranger in a domino mask and  very tight leather jeans who’s belt buckle was the bat symbol.

The moment their eyes met, a bolt of electricity when down Clark’s spine. He could feel his pupils dilating as the blue eyed stranger stalked over to him like a panther cornering it’s prey. A part of him remembered he probably didn’t want to be noticed. That it probably was best for his life as Clark that no one would recognise him from a strip club. 

It was easy to imagine the ribbing Lois or Jimmy would give him for it. But in that moment, all his common sense left him for an alternate dimension. In this reality, he was pinned in place, unable to do anything beneath that gaze.

The masked stranger smirked as he approached, swaying his hips hypnotisingly, the bat buckle tight against his crouch, serving as a beacon to where Clark’s eyes strayed. He seemed to be aware just how badly he was affecting the reporter as he continued to look smug, never breaking eye contact. 

When the beat of the music got hot and sinful, the stranger slid his glove clad hand in a slow motion down his body. Catching the stray drops of sweat that glistened off his bare chest alluringly. He rolled his hips while doing so, letting out a soft moan almost inaudible when his hand finally hit the bat buckle. From there he grasped the garish yellow and black buckle with one hand, while the other grasped the pole behind him and continued to slowly roll his body with the beat. His quiet moans never stopping.

If it were anyone else, they wouldn’t have heard it. They would have just seen, not heard. 

But Clark’s senses in that moment were completely attuned to this stranger, and he heard. Every. Little. Gasp. 

He almost broke the glass of beer that was in his hand, so lost to the feast before him. The stranger never stopped, and so Clark never stopped watching. Their eyes remained locked, making him feel oddly naked, though the stranger on stage was the one barely clothed. 

With his sense listening to the man’s every gasp, and eyes locked, there was something undeniably intimate about this moment. Though Clark knew with certainty this stranger and he would never meet again, he couldn’t help yearn a little to know more.

To meet this masked stranger.

But he was stuck instead in his seat. Mouth barely closed as the stranger started to crouch low using the pole as a guide.

The leather pants tightened over the stranger’s thighs, outlining well defined muscle underneath. And to add to the performance, he ran his hands over them as if it were a sexual organ. Stroking himself slowly upwards, grazing his pert nipples on his muscle pecs while doing so. 

Clark had to physically restrain himself from levitating over to touch them. Which was a bad sign. He’d never been this out of control, even under the influence of one of the many coloured kryptonite Lex Luthor seemed to spawn out of thin air. He felt his control slipping away with every gyrating hip roll the stranger performed. 

It was like his own personal brand of kryptonite. 

And Clark couldn’t get enough of it.

Which was why he knew it was best if he waited outside. There had to be something in the air, his skin felt like it was on fire with arousal. It felt sensitive, particularly in the nether regions against his clothes, like every shift was a hand caressing him. An out of control Superman was dangerous enough, but if he lost himself in this manner, people could get seriously hurt. 

Finally breaking eye contact, Clark paid for the drink with a wad of bills and got ready to leave. He collected his jacket off his chair, and took one step away when he heard one word. One word that made him stop in his tracks.

“Clark.”

It wasn’t just his name that stopped him. Anyone could have recognised him, he was a journalist after all. He had to chase up leads the old fashion way many times and that man on stage could have been any number of them. But it was the timber of his voice, the way he practically growled as he rolled the last syllables of his name that froze Clark in place. 

Super hearing might have been why he heard this over the heavy, loud beats of the club, but he didn’t need super hearing to know who that voice belonged to. And he was utterly helpless to do anything but stop. Stop and reassess what exactly was happening.

It was Bruce. 

He’d just been given the show of a life time by Bruce Wayne, CEO of Wayne Enterprises. And most important of all, Batman, the dark knight of Gotham. The inspirer of fear and respect in the nightmare city had just given him a strip show, dancing seductively before him.

With this revelation, he could hardly leave despite his overwhelming desire to dig himself a coffin and lie it in. Was the eye contact, which he’d found erotic, Bruce trying to get him to recognise him? Was he so lost in their blue depths, and the flexible sway of Bruce’s adonis like form, that he missed his friend’s call for assistance? 

Ultimately he knew this was an exercise of futility, reanalysing everything like with this new perspective but it was all he could do for now. 

Sitting back in his seat, he waited for Bruce to finish up, taking wads of cash from patrons as he slinked back off stage. Now that Clark looked from an objective point of view, it kind of reminded him of how Catwoman moved. 

“Room 4B.” 

Clark heard from Bruce over the din of catcalls and whistling as the music came to an end. He nodded, though he knew there was no way Bruce could see and got up to leave. 

…

“Bruce, I can explain.” Clark started off while entering into the room, expecting he’d find Bruce doing his best ‘I’m disappointed in you’ stare that cowed both criminals and fellow leaguers into submission with ease. And while he did have a legitimate reason for being here, he couldn’t possibly think of one for why he was so captivated by Bruce he failed to recognise him. Now looking back, he could see the tiny fleck where the make up hiding his scars were peeling, and that the muscles weren’t the sort one got from simply working out. It was the sort of flexible yet tough as steel physique one got from fighting crime on a daily basis. 

Clark would have continued on if it weren't for the minor fact his throat dried up as he actually faced Bruce. In hindsight, he should have knocked.

Bruce had his back turned to him as he was taking off his leather jeans, shimming as they slowly slid off his hips. His mask was already on the couch, alongside a freshly pressed suit. All he had on underneath was a jockstrap which really left nothing to his imagination, which was a real problem. Clark couldn’t take his eyes off Bruce, and after the previous mishap, you’d think he’d learn, but he evidently didn’t. Despite the a tiny, quite voice screaming for him to look away, give Bruce some decency as this was obviously some undercover mission, he couldn’t.

He was rooted in place, watching that muscular behind sway lightly as Bruce peeled back the pants that stuck to him with sweat. Sweat and musk that Clark could smell easily, and dissect each pheromone in the air. Naturally the place smelled of sex, it was a strip club. And these were one of the ‘private’ rooms. But Bruce’s scent, the smell of leather, sweat and heavy musk was the scent he locked in on, like before with the eyes. He was trapped.

“Clark, it’s fine. I’m guessing you’re here about the drug ring operated by Alfonso Derriene.” Bruce spoke while finally divesting himself of the pants, and slipping into a suit that was probably worth of more than Clark’s yearly salary. He dressed all business like, methodically putting on one layer at time with practiced ease. Acting as if the past thirty minutes didn’t just happen. “I’ve already taken care of it, he and his operative will be off the street by the end of this week.” 

Logically he knew he should reply in some way, this was the perfect opportunity to pretend and move on. To act as if this wasn’t the most erotic non-explicit sexual experience he had to date. But all his blood had gone south and didn’t seem to be too interested in coming back up. All Clark could do was try and suppressing his flush and ‘discreetly’ cover his crouch with his coat. 

“Clark?” Bruce asked, finally turning to face him. Shirt still not fully buttoned up, showing that expanse of muscular chest that had taken his breath away before. His nipples were still pert with the slight chill in the room compared to the heat of the stage, and it was distracting. Catching his eyes when he really should at least be meeting Bruce’s gaze if he was planning to stay dumbly mute.

“Clark.” Bruce’s voice took on a far more deeper, and seductive tone which changed in an instant the atmosphere of the room. He should have known better than to try fool the world’s best detective, and the heavy intent in his voice made Bruce’s point clear. He had no interest in playing pretend either.

Which was all the permission Clark needed.

In a flash, he flew up to Bruce, stopping inches in front of him. Their eyes meeting again, blue staring at blue. His hands wanted to touch, but wouldn’t unless he got permission. He’d never forgive himself if he hurt Bruce or destroyed their friendship over this.

“Bruce, I… You’re… God, let me touch you, tell me yes. The way you were moving, and everything.”

The pause was the longest in Clark’s life, worse than the sickening silence waiting to see if a bomb was successful defused or not. A moment of truth. Everything coming down to one word.

“Yes.”

 

…

“B, I got the files. Let’s move before they realis-. Ah fuck!” Jason span around 180 and slamming the door shut behind him before anyone could say anything. His eyes snapped shut as he did trying desperately to erase the sight he just saw from his eyes. 

He did not leave Kori and Roy to deal with this. 

Scrubbing at his eyes, Jason cringed trying to wish away the last minute of his life leaning against the dingy wall. Bruce naked was nothing new, the man practically waltzed around the bat cave half naked most days. But Bruce and Clark, now that was something Jason really didn’t need to see. Not that is was a surprise, but he thought a hardass like Bats would at least wait till they got to a secured location. 

“Red Hood, will you be requiring back up?” Alfred’s voice patched through the ear piece he wore, remind him that yes, they were on a mission here. And if he didn’t response in the next thirty seconds, this moment was about to get even more awkward for everyone. 

A part of him, wanted to let Bruce suffer. Let the back up of replacement and demon spawn come witness daddy dearest’s proclivities. But even he had to admit that was flat out childish, and he would guess that just having Jason walk in on this intimate scene was humiliating enough for Bruce. Sighing at the state he’d become, he responded back.

“Negative, Penny-one. Everything fine.”

B-man owed him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> First fic ever, please be kind and feel free to point out mistakes I made. Constructive criticism is always welcome.


End file.
